


and the antichrist makes three

by pepperfield



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (sort of), Accidental Baby Acquisition, Adoption, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Co-Parenting with The Enemy Slash Love of Your Life, Gen, Kid Fic, M/M, Mutual Pining, Officially Married, Parenthood, tfw you decide to just raise the spawn of satan yourself but you can't stop misplacing babies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 08:39:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19147474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepperfield/pseuds/pepperfield
Summary: It almost sounds like the start of a joke: an angel, a demon, and a superfluous baby walk into a bar, only the baby can’t walk yet, of course, and the demon’s odd stride is more of a saunter than a walk, really, and by “bar” we actually mean “domestic family situation."





	and the antichrist makes three

**Author's Note:**

> Here's some indulgent nonsense about two husbands and their unintentional child. Little disclaimer: the first two paragraphs of this fic are directly quoted from the book! Please don't take me to court!

_“It would be nice to think that the Satanist Nuns had the surplus baby — Baby B — discreetly adopted. That he grew to be a normal, happy, laughing child, active and exuberant; and after that, grew further to become a normal, fairly contented adult._

_And perhaps that’s what happened.”_

Or perhaps it goes a bit more like this:

Crowley, upon taking his seat in the Bentley and realizing that indeed, the end times were nigh, begins to second guess this whole Armageddon business again, despite being previously for it in a nebulous, theoretical way. His unfortunate fondness for humanity makes the whole end of the world thing come up lacking. Humans are such odd, petty, kind creatures, filled to the brim with the ingenuity to invent the things Crowley likes most about earth. It would be rather a pity to face eternity without them.

And while free will isn’t exactly something Crowley is supposed to have in excess supply, he manages to dredge up enough to come to a rather hasty, poorly thought out decision. Just like humans tend to do. It’s very possible that they may have grown on him a tad too much.

He hurries back into the convent to catch hold of his golden-haired charge before the switch can be arranged and arrives up the stairs in time to see a young nun wheeling a sleeping blond boy outside Room Three.

“That’s him, then?” Crowley asks, gesturing at the baby, where “him” was obviously referring to the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness.

Sister Anne Garrulous, under the assumption that Master Crowley knew which baby was the Antichrist, having delivered him to the convent, naturally thought that “him” was meant to denote Baby B, and answers thusly, “Yes, here he is! He’ll be dealt with shortly-”

“Right, I’ll take care of it. Change of plans and all that, you know how it is.” She doesn’t, probably, seeing as this little switcheroo is part of The Great Plan, but the nun nods regardless.

“Oh, well, if you’re certain, Master Crowley,” Sister Anne says, wheeling Baby B over to him. She doesn’t want to impose — she’s certain he has all manners of demonic interference to be engaging in — but he did offer, and whatever he has planned is probably much easier than the back-alley adoption the order had intended. So Crowley snatches up the child and immediately flees the scene, which leaves her free to peek in on the attaché’s wife and The Adversary.

After skedaddling quickly enough not to be caught by anyone on his way out, Crowley bundles the child as best he can into the seat beside him and starts up the engine. Prokofiev begins to play, still on _Romeo and Juliet_ , not yet _Love of My Life_. Behind him, back in the convent, Adam Young is being named and Mrs. Harriet Dowling is yelling at her husband over the telephone.

Crowley glances down at his passenger. He’s bulky, red-faced, and squishy. Currently asleep, which is a blessing Crowley didn’t pray for, but soon he’ll be awake and he’ll want milk and things. Baby paraphernalia. Whatever it is that (not quite) human infants want. This is all seeming suddenly a bit out of hand, and Crowley wonders if this is what Aziraphale felt like before he up and gave away his flaming sword to Adam. There’s that usual rush of damning affection that Crowley’s gotten accustomed to after a couple thousand years, but then he thinks to himself, _Aziraphale_ , right. Of course.

It might be time to phone for backup.

\--

Aziraphale thought he had a fairly clear understanding of how The Arrangement was supposed to work.

A few miracles on either side here and there, a handful of temptations once in a while. A working relationship. A standard level of professional companionship, and the same couple of favors traded between the two of them over some millennia. A lingering, unspoken ache whenever Crowley sashayed back onto the scene to get them in a spot of trouble and do something carelessly sweet for Aziraphale that would make his feathers ruffle with fondness. 

The Arrangement was a constant. A known variable.

There were never supposed to _babies_ involved. Not like this. And not least of all the _Antichrist_.

“Oh, my dear, what have you _done?_ ” Aziraphale hisses as he drops an entire slice of bread over the water, where it neatly bops a duck on the head before the poor thing can realize what’s happening.

“Listen,” Crowley says, the carrycot dangling from one hand like a decorative briefcase, his entire body angled toward Aziraphale the same way a broken weathervane tilts toward the sky. “The Big One is coming; it’s upon us. Or, it will be in eleven years. And neither of us wants that, do we, angel?”

“Of course we do!”

“I think you’ll find that you really don’t. Look,” and he launches into a terribly convincing spiel about The Sound of Music and crosswords and eggs, and Aziraphale lets himself be charmed into lunch, because sometimes it’s all too easy to be tempted into things when Crowley is involved.

They wind up at the Ritz, which suddenly finds that baby formula is also on its menu. Crowley has his hands full trying to feed the Antichrist whilst attempting to eat his tea sandwich, and the better part of Aziraphale wants to offer to help, but the just-as-angelic-but-more-easily-amused part of him would rather just watch his friend struggle. A bit of a lesson about getting himself entangled in this whole _baby_ debacle.

“Could you please just-” Crowley asks, distracted. He balances his sandwich on the milk bottle while he readjusts the child resting in the crook of his arm and almost drops his lunch on the ground. “Stopping at two hands was a definite design flaw,” he mutters as he attempts to feed the baby again.

“Oh, do give me that,” Aziraphale says, holding out his hand for the bottle but receiving the cucumber sandwich instead. Undeterred, he lifts it to Crowley, who gives him a look with an odd twist to his lips, but accepts the sandwich into his mouth regardless. 

“Like I was saying,” he says after swallowing, “you don’t know that this can’t all be averted.”

Aziraphale resists the urge to throw his hands in the air. “I’m afraid I can’t imagine that your _kidnapping_ of _The Wicked One_ will stop the divine plan! This may as well be you up to your usual wiles again. Whatever you’re doing can’t- it isn’t going to stop the progression of things that have been in motion since the beginning! Our sides have been locked in this war forever; you know where we’re headed.”

“Ah, and isn’t that precisely it?” Crowley says, leaning across the table. “We’ve been doing this forever. One side does the tempting, one side does the thwarting. Isn’t this just one more turn in the long game? I’ve already got the- the boy, here, with me. That part isn’t changing. And if I were to be left to my own devices, my _wiles_ unchecked, well, that would be an oversight on your part, wouldn’t it? To leave this...this blank slate alone to fend for himself against the onslaught of evil influence?”

This gives Aziraphale pause. “Blank slate?”

“Well, of course, it all comes down to upbringing, doesn’t it? Look at him,” Crowley says, brandishing his ward at Aziraphale like a senior citizen showing off the photos of his grandchildren in his wallet. Except a baby is much larger, and Aziraphale winds up with the boy in his hands before he realizes. He does look at him, and though he knows he’s holding The Son of Perdition, all he can see are the watery gray eyes and soft, wrinkly face of a newborn child.

“He does look so...human.”

“See? He’s neither one way nor the other at this point. But if I get my metaphorical claws into him, he’ll definitely wind up on the wrong path. Or, the right path, depending on how you look at it, I suppose.”

“So it’s only fitting that I should try and thwart you,” Aziraphale finishes, filling in the gaps. He hands the baby back to Crowley, who looks overwhelmed for just a second before resting the baby’s head softly against his shoulder.

“Exactly! And you wouldn’t even be breaking any rules. You’re doing good, after all.”

“You do have a point there.”

“Of course I do. Think about it, really think about it for a moment. _Eternity_. It’s a long time to go with only saints for company.”

Crowley isn’t wrong. And as far as divine plans go, Aziraphale really wouldn’t be in the wrong, would he, to try and set a wandering soul onto the right path?

But that soul is still very much a baby. A whole entire child. Who will bring about the end of everything. This isn’t your usual case of virtue or vice. This is a deep cover assignment.

And it’s a lot — it’s all _so much_ , but over the course of six thousand years, Aziraphale has come to a few definite conclusions. One, that ice cream always tastes better in a cone. Two, that there were a few more socially conscious choices he could have made in the eighteenth century.

And three. That Crowley could likely wheedle him into doing almost anything, provided that it didn’t directly interfere with Aziraphale’s purview as an angel. Such is the price of affection.

He never brings it up, of course, because, well. It would upset the rather comfortable situation that they’ve built for the two of themselves over the years. One doesn’t just admit to being sweet on The Enemy. It gives too much of the right idea.

And since Crowley does seem just as willing to let Aziraphale cajole him into casual favors, and to pop in just to visit or bring gifts, Aziraphale can stoutly keep pretending that on his end this foxhole loyalty, this inescapable pull, is just typical of any friendship. 

“My dear boy,” he finally says after clearing his throat. “Are you asking me to raise the Antichrist with you?”

“What I’m asking, angel, is for you to bring our Arrangement to its next logical step. And if it happens to involve some level of...parenthood, hm. The divine plan is ineffable, isn’t it? Maybe this is how it goes.”

Maybe it is. And maybe Aziraphale is a soft fucking touch for an old serpent who held his heart even before dropping a bomb on a few nazis back in the 1940s.

He takes an unwieldy gulp of his champagne before muddling out, “Well, we’ll have to- we certainly can’t raise the poor child in your flat. We’ll have to relocate.”

Crowley pauses in the middle of tucking the boy back into the sea of blankets in his carrier. After folding one more flap of cloth over, he reaches up to fiddle with his sunglasses, before agreeing.

“It isn’t particularly baby-proof, true. But the bookshop-”

Aziraphale takes a deep breath. “Can- can be packed up and relocated as well. There are shops in the- the countryside. Outside the city. You know. I’ll hire a moving van.”

They look at one another for one of those quick but too-bare moments as the reality of what they’re doing settles around them. 

“You’ll- yeah, alright. We’ll call up the movers after lunch. Look up some house listings.”

“That’s the plan, then.” A beat of silence passes before Crowley swallows a mini lemon tart whole (very snake-like, that, and bizarrely endearing to boot), and waves his glass about.

“...shall we order another bottle? In celebration of the big move?”

“Yes, let’s.”

They finish off their brunch discussing anything but the imminent change in their living situation, until it’s about time to leave, and Aziraphale thinks of something while watching Crowley absently rocking the baby carrier back and forth in its chair.

“He’ll need a name, my dear. I don’t suppose you’ve settled on anything yet?”

Crowley shrugs, and continues rocking the boy in his carrycot. “I was thinking I’d leave it up to you, actually.”

Aziraphale looks down at the child — _their_ child now, he supposes — and reaches over to brush away a pale lock of hair out of the boy’s eyes. How truly interesting the next decade is going to be. At least he’ll have a familiar face around to weather the storm with him.

“We’ll think up something together.”

\--

There’s a lovely little cottage in a quaint little town right near the American attaché’s home and a now burned-down convent, that’s but a seven minute walk from the town center where a retail space just happened to open up after eight years. The perfect kind of corner spot for, say, a cozy little bookshop.

Messieurs Crowley and Fell and young James W. Crowley (“Wormwood is bit...unique, Crowley.” “Leave it as an initial, then. Worked well enough for me.”) move into a cottage in Lower Tadfield to a minor amount of scandal. A pinch of indignation as well, on Mr. R.P. Tyler’s part, since Mr. Crowley’s apple trees are inexplicably even more beautiful and fruitful than his own. But the excitement dies down soon enough, and the neighbors soon grow used to the couple who owns the bookshop on the corner.

Life in Lower Tadfield continues idyllically on.

For James, once he’s old enough, this means a good deal of odd and conflicting moral lessons from his two fathers, but also mostly just a lot of old fashioned, everyday existence. 

His first word is “book” and his favorite animal is the pretty blue tropical fish on the science magazine that was accidentally delivered to their house. There’s a mobile of Noah’s Ark hanging from his ceiling, and a bright poster with a disease for each letter of the alphabet on his wall. His parents take him for rides in the Bentley and for strolls down the wide neighborhood streets and out to eat curry at the family restaurant in the square. Father reads to him out on the lawn while dad threatens the plants in the garden with a thorough pruning.

He develops a penchant for throwing balls in the direction of things he shouldn’t, like windows and Mr. Tyler, but he also releases every insect that crawls into the house, instead of squashing them. He tends to put his father’s shop in awful disarray more often than he helps clean it, but he also stands by the door to hold it open for every entering patron. He’s a bit too large for his age, but his dad teaches him how to tap his foot along to Queen, and his father teaches him the gavotte, so at the very least he’s sure-footed if clumsy most other ways. For his fourth birthday, he receives a pet fish, and it quickly becomes the center of his world. The following summer, he becomes tentative friends with a sticky boy named Brian and starts running through the fields and forests with Brian’s group soon thereafter. It’s a good life.

Crowley thinks so too. His attachment to James — strange, earnest, stumbling child that he is — exceeds his usual brand of fondness for humanity. He particularly enjoys the way that the boy humors their angel when he’s trying yet another disastrous magic trick in the kitchen. He likes that James takes his fishkeeping very seriously and that he finds maths distasteful.

The same goes for Aziraphale, who has developed a whole bevy of nicknames and affectionate taps and hugs just for their child. Crowley knows that he finds it endearing that their beloved Adversary is good at drawing elephants and has a mild pollen allergy.

Maybe the boy is a touch _too_ normal, but for now Crowley just takes it to mean that The Arrangement is still intact and working. Neither of their sides has tried to burn them in hellfire or douse them with holy water to date, so all’s well on that front, too. It’s almost too perfect, but for one glaring flaw.

The one issue with this whole setup is that Crowley’s come to find that The Arrangement is more trying in one specific way than it’s ever been in the millennia since its conception.

The thing about having had romantic feelings for one’s best friend for six thousand years and some change, is that those feelings were always a manageable problem when the two of them didn’t have to see each other _every single day_ of their eternal lives. Or share a house, or a- a _bed_ , because even though Aziraphale doesn’t actually sleep, they have to put up a good front for their son.

So Crowley has to live miserably through domestic bliss and while it isn’t a hardship, it does leave him unbalanced at least a few days out of every month. Or approximately as often as Aziraphale shows any blinding enthusiasm for one of earth’s many curiosities, or indulges in hedonistic enjoyment of sushi and tartan and rare collector’s editions. So, all the time, unfortunately.

Quite unbeknownst to him, Aziraphale finds himself with a similar struggle on hand. Every once in a while he's mired with a sense of wistful discontent, like when he catches Crowley sleeping flat on the floor, or misting his hydrangeas, or shopping for some ludicrous article of clothing that’s currently en vogue. It’s a debilitating weakness.

But besides these minor inconveniences, the intrepid duo make their plan-within-the-plan work.

And perhaps seven years in, James asks his parents why he’s never seen them kiss, when Wensley says he’s seen his mum and dad kiss before loads of times. His dad and father both turn a hideously flushed color, before trying to talk over one another to explain, so he just shakes his head in annoyance and runs out the door to go bike down to Pepper’s instead.

And perhaps a few long weeks after that, he finally witnesses the deed for the first time: his parents standing close in the pantry, their lips pressed together and their hands hovering awkwardly as if neither knows what to do with them.

He tries to close the door quietly behind him, but accidentally trips on a block structure he left out on the carpet despite reminders to clean up, and then there’s a whole mess and it’s dinnertime besides, so father comes out to help him tidy up while dad fusses around with the stove.

James has to come to terms with the mortifying realization that his parents are in love. Crowley and Aziraphale have to do much the same. But with that hiccup out of the way, life in their household returns to smooth sailing.

And eleven years after that unscrupulous but well-meaning deal is first made, when a hellhound most unceremoniously does not appear at their doorstep on James’ birthday, Aziraphale will fly into a panic and Crowley will tell his family to get in the damned car because he’s going to drive the three of them off to Alpha Centauri, blast it all, before the main event begins, and James will protest vehemently against all this smothering because he’s meant to go meet up with the rest of the Them since it’s Adam’s birthday too. A lot of explaining will have to be done, and some unexpected truths will come to light, but with the help of some friends, both young and middlish and old, they’ll live to see the first day of the rest of their lives.

And that’s not such a bad fate for Baby B, is it?


End file.
